


And Now My Watch Begins

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old gods were silent gods; if Benjen hadn't known this before, he truly knew it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Now My Watch Begins

"The fault is mine," Rickard said, sounding tired and angry at once. "I have left her to be raised by her brothers."

Benjen could just see Maester Walys' bald head past the curve of the turret wall; he pressed closer to the stones and hoped he wouldn't be noticed. This conversation wasn't for his ears, but it wasn't truly his fault he was hearing it. Maester Walys had stopped Rickard on the stairs as Benjen was coming down behind him, and now he'd tarried too long to leave unseen.

Besides, he'd already heard the story from one of the serving girls. Lyanna had asked a stable hand to saddle her horse, and when he'd refused her for not having a chaperone, she'd stolen it. Ser Rodrik had just returned with her an hour ago; he'd found her deep in the Wolfswood, alone and riding bareback in a man's fashion, her skirts pushed up past her knees.

"My lord," Maester Walys began, pausing as if Rickard had gestured for silence.

"No. The fault is mine. I should have married again after Lyarra died. Lya has been too long without a woman's hand."

Benjen's mother had died in childbed when he was five, birthing a daughter who never drew breath. He remembered little about her, save for her dark hair and the cold morning she'd been laid in the crypts. It had snowed the night before, covering the lichyard under the First Keep in a thick blanket of white, and Lyanna had cried for her the hardest, her grey eyes puffy and red and her hand shaking as she'd clutched at Benjen's sleeve.

"She is young yet," Maester Walys said.

"Aye, she is. I should speak with Nan. Lya needs more stories about ladies behaving as ladies, and less about wildling kings and children being stolen by White Walkers in the night."

Benjen frowned. He liked Old Nan's scary stories the best; he hoped she didn't start telling _him_ about ladies behaving as ladies.

"Have you considered a septa? The motherhouse at White Harbor would be honored to send one to House Stark."

Rickard huffed quietly. "We keep the old gods here. We have no sept."

"Septas offer courtly instruction as well as religious teaching," Maester Walys said. "As for a sept, my lord -- there is space enough at Winterfell, if you wished to have one built. And if you indeed make Brandon a southron match, it would see use."

"If I do make Brandon a southron match, and he chooses to tolerate his wife's southron gods, that is his own business. I will not risk angering the old gods myself."

The maester was quiet for a moment, then said, "I've been told the old gods are silent gods."

"They are silent, and they grant few favors. But they are watchful as well, and easy to offend."

 

+

 

The Great Hall was loud and crowded and thick with smoke, and Benjen leaned closer to the table, squinting as he studied the men seated beside his father. He'd seen sworn brothers before -- the Watch sent Yoren every few turns to beg salt and arms and men -- but the four who'd arrived before supper were true rangers, fighting men dressed in black mail and heavy black cloaks. The three closest to Benjen were of an age with Brandon and Ned, but the one speaking to his father was older. He had greying hair tied in a long braid, and he was missing the last three fingers of his right hand.

"Tell me your tale, Qhorin," Rickard said, his voice dulled by the din from the lower tables. "I have never known the Watch to send four rangers after one deserter."

"We wouldn't have, but this one lightened the armory before he left. We want the steel he took as much as we want his head."

Rickard nodded thoughtfully, scratching at the beard that shadowed his jaw. "He won't peddle that steel in the Wolfswood. He'll have made for Torrhen's Square, or headed downriver to White Harbor. You are welcome to the use of my dogs."

"Thank you, Lord Stark." Qhorin lifted his ale, and his brothers did as well. "The Watch is fortunate to have such a good friend."

"The Watch serves the realm, and receives precious little in return," Rickard said. Benjen leaned closer still, trying to hear him over Lyanna. She was giggling with one of the serving girls, likely because of the youngest ranger, a fresh-face man with round cheeks and hair gold enough for a Lannister. "I wrote Commander Qorgyle a few days ago. Has he given more thought to settling the Gift?"

"I will mention it when I return. It's a fair idea, if them who live there are willing to take up arms when the Watch has need."

Laughter erupted at one of the lower tables, drowning the conversation in noise. It took Benjen a few moments to find it again, and by then they had moved on to boring things -- the smallfolk's complaints of driving autumn rains, Brandon's plans to return to the Rills at the turn of the moon. Benjen didn't care about any of that. He wanted to hear about wildings and shadowcats and giants.

His favorite stories were about the Others, and the Long Night, when Westeros was covered in darkness and snow. Old Nan always told them in her quiet voice, speaking softer and softer until Benjen was straining to hear her words. He would be eleven soon, and almost eleven was too old for stories, but he didn't mind her visits if those were the stories she told.

The table creaked as someone took the empty chair beside him. It was Qhorin; he was far taller than Benjen even sitting, and he seemed older this close, his mouth lined and his cheeks leathered from wind and cold.

"You look to be a strong lad. What's your name?"

"Benjen, my lord."

Qhorin snorted. "I'm no lord, just an old crow. I saw you watching us over your meat -- have you not seen a sworn brother before?"

"Only Yoren," Benjen said, wrinkling his nose. His father treated Yoren warmly when he visited Winterfell, and sent him back to the Wall with swords and spears and any men caught thieving or poaching, but Yoren had a sour face and smell, and his clothes were so old they looked more grey than black. "Never any rangers."

"Yoren is a good man. He was a good swordsman too, until he ruined his shoulder." Qhorin took a long drink of ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "He turned it wrong fighting wildlings in the Frostfangs."

"Have you fought wildlings?"

"I have," Qhorin said, laying his maimed hand on the table. The fingers had been cleanly cut, done by a sword or an axe. "Do you want to fight wildlings?"

Benjen hadn't considered it -- not really, not beyond the things that happened in Old Nan's stories. Brandon would inherit Winterfell one day, and Ned would serve as his castellan, and Lyanna would marry -- to the south, if Robert Baratheon had his way -- but Benjen didn't know what he'd do when he came of age. He sometimes thought he'd like to be a knight, but knights lived in the south and worshiped the Seven, and Benjen didn't want to do either of those things.

"I don't know," he said honestly. 

Qhorin was quiet for a moment, then stood, squeezing Benjen's shoulder with his good hand. "If you decide you do, the Watch will have a black cloak waiting for you. There are worse ways for a third son to live and die than in service to the realm."

"Are their Others beyond the Wall?" Benjen asked.

"I've never seen one, but that doesn't mean there aren't. There are places north of north where even the wildlings fear to go."

 

+

Benjen countered Brandon's first two parries easily, but the third one caught him off his guard. He lost his feet, turning his heel on a rock as he tried to step out of Brandon's reach; Brandon lunged in before Benjen could right himself, disarming him with a grunt and a quick flick of his wrist. Benjen's sword clattered to the ground, and he stared at it for a moment before cursing under his breath.

"Go on, Ben," Brandon said, gesturing at the fallen sword with his own. "Try it again."

Benjen retrieved his sword, studying Brandon's stance as he set his feet. He was faster than Brandon, likely because he was thinner, but Brandon was nearly a hand taller and stronger in the arms. When Brandon sparred with Ned or Ser Rodrik, Benjen could see his weaknesses -- his impatience, his impulsiveness, his tendency to leave himself open on a thrust -- but when Brandon fought him face to face, Benjen could not find a way to exploit them.

Brandon lunged in, nearly clipping Benjen's side. "Keep your arm up. No -- higher." They circled each other; Brandon swung sharply, and Benjen barely spun away in time. "Much better. Now, turn your body more to the side."

"Knock him down, Benjen," Robert Baratheon called out. "Let's see you put him in the dirt!"

Robert was watching from the gallery, dressed in a fine gold cloak trimmed with black fur and sewn with prancing stags. He had Lyanna by his side, his large hand resting at her waist; she nodded at Benjen, offering him a tight smile that did not reach her eyes.

Brandon swung again, his sword moving in a narrow arc. Benjen dodged it, but his counter came too late; Brandon slipped past him, darting in to strike him on the shoulder, and Robert roared with laughter, clapping his free hand against the rail.

"Did you care for a turn, Robert?" Brandon asked.

"I haven't got my hammer."

"Ben will lend you his sword," Brandon said, smiling brightly. "I trust you still remember how to use one."

Robert barked out another thunderous laugh. "I'll skin you for that, Stark. I'll turn your rotten hide into a pelt." He untied his cloak and handed it to Lyanna, then stepped into the yard, accepting Benjen's sword with a nod. He bantered with Brandon a bit more as he stretched his arms and hefted the sword to test its weight, and Benjen moved into the gallery, taking a place beside Lyanna. He hadn't spoken with her since last night, when their father signed the pledge that promised Robert her hand.

"Do you wed him soon?" Benjen asked. 

"On my sixteenth nameday."

"Are you unhappy?"

"It is a splendid match," Lyanna said, her voice sullen at the edges. "I could not ask for a better one."

Brandon and Robert were sparring now, but they were doing it in a lazy fashion, moving slowly and exchanging more laughter and words than blows, and Lyanna made a good appearance of watching them, smiling when Robert looked at her and clapping when he pressed an advantage. He handled the sword well, but it was plain he preferred to use his hammer; his form was good, but he swung too widely and struck with more force than finesse. 

"He swears he loves you," Benjen offered.

"He also swears he hasn't fathered any bastards," Lyanna said, brushing her hair from her face. "I doubt he loves me half so much as he loves the idea of marrying Ned's sister."

 

+

 

Lyanna fought well with a sword -- Benjen knew this much from the hours they'd spent sparring the godswood -- but these were three grown squires, stronger than her and fully trained at arms, and Lyanna was dressed for feasting and dancing, her hair loose and her footwork hampered by her fancy slippers and heavy silk skirts.

The crannogman was still on the ground, wincing as he tried to find his feet. Benjen cast about for another stick or sword to fight with, but then he heard a sharp crack, as if Lyanna's last strike had landed the bony curve of a shoulder or hip. One of the squires cried out in pain, and Benjen turned back around as all three broke and ran, kicking up clouds of dust as they scurried for the tents.

"Blount, Frey, and Haigh," Lyanna grumbled, dropping the tourney sword in the dirt. "I will have Father speak with their knights."

Benjen caught the crannogman under the arm and eased him to his feet. "You mustn't. If you tell father you picked up a sword, he will have both our heads for supper."

"I will tell him _you_ beat them."

Benjen should have beat them, but he'd tarried too far behind her, watching four men from House Whent practice their archery. Inside the bustle of the crowd, with people milling and pushing each other to make space, he hadn't realized there was a problem until Lyanna had started to shout.

"I know you are of House Reed," Lyanna told the crannogman, "but I fear I don't know your name."

"It's Howland, my lady," he replied, his voice thin and soft. He had a dark bruise on his jaw, and a jagged cut on his arm that was bleeding sluggishly. "You have done me a great honor."

"Those three hadn't a drop between them." She gathered her skirts with one hand and stooped to retrieve his little three-pronged spear. "This is an interesting weapon, Howland Reed. Will you show me how to use it?"

"I would be pleased to, my lady."

Lyanna smiled, then used the spear to poke Benjen in the side. "Give Howland your arm, Ben. Father will have _all_ our heads for supper if we miss the feast."

 

+

 

The sky was clear and brilliantly blue, and the sun shone brightly above the tourney stands, beating down with a heat Benjen had never known at Winterfell, even in the height of summer. He was sweating in his new doublet, the collar and cuffs growing limp and heavy and damp, and his hair kept escaping its tail, sticking to the back of his neck no matter how high he tied it. Lyanna sat perfectly still beside him, her chin high and her hands folded in her lap. She was still angry at him for the night before; Prince Rhaegar had played his harp at the feast, and Benjen had laughed when his song had moved her to tears.

She'd had her revenge -- pouring a full cup of Dornish red over his head -- but it seemed she was not yet willing to forgive him.

A low murmur ran through the crowd, and Benjen looked toward the royal dais, where Gerold Hightower and Arthur Dayne were presenting Jaime Lannister to the king. The cloak they wrapped around his shoulders was whiter than snow and brighter than the gold of his hair. Jaime turned back to face the crowd, and the men whistled and cheered, the stands shaking as they stood and stamped their feet. He smiled and offered them a bow.

 _There are worse ways for a third son to live and die than in service to the realm_.

Knights lived in the south and worshiped the Seven, but there was more honor in the Kingsguard than the Night's Watch.

 

+

 

"Send the ravens," Benjen said, his voice bruised and thick in his own ears. He was seven-and-ten, a man grown, but he sounded more than half a child and he knew it. "I want the men called. All of them."

"As you command," Maester Walys said, then, "my lord." Benjen _was_ the Lord of Winterfell now, with Ned trapped at the Eyrie and Rickard and Brandon dead, but the words set Benjen's teeth on edge. "If I may ask -- to what end? Do you intend to march?"

Benjen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had considered this question for the last two days, praying before the heart tree until his knees grew stiff and numb, but he still had no clear answer. The old gods were silent gods; if Benjen had not known this before, he truly knew it now. They had no advice for Benjen and his father's men, and they had not spoken when Lyanna first went missing and Brandon rode to King's Landing to demand Rhaegar's head.

 _If he had only come home. I might have spared him his life._ Brandon had paid little attention to Lyanna in the days after Harrehal, too intent on returning to Catelyn Tully and Riverrun or Barbrey Ryswell and the Rills; he hadn't noticed Lyanna clutching that crown of roses until the petals turned black and fell from her hands, nor had he seen the soft smiles that had brushed her lips when she mentioned Rhaegar's name. There had been love there, or something close to it, however improbable it seemed. Lyanna had brimmed with a quiet happiness in the turns before she disappeared; Benjen doubted she'd simply been snatched in the night like something out of Old Nan's stories. _Done is done. He would not have believed Lyanna went willingly, not when I had no proof. And even if he had, there would still be no soothing Robert's pride._

"No," Benjen said finally. "I will not put the North in open rebellion -- not without knowing Ned's mind." He had ordered garrisons for Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin, but such acts did not amount to treason yet. "Ned might not need to march. My father's men are angry and demanding war, but it might be enough if Ned declares the North sovereign and only fights Aerys' men in defense of Northern lands."

"And what of Robert Baratheon?"

_The Others take Robert Baratheon. Had he not been so blind to Lyanna's indifference, we might not be in this mess._

"Jon Arryn will not sit idle, not after losing his nephew," Maester Walys continued quietly. He leaned closer to the map, resting his hand over the Bay of Crabs. "He will march."

"The Eyrie is impregnable."

"The Vale is not," the maester insisted. "Lord Arryn swore an oath to protect Ned and Robert -- his honor will not allow him to send them to their deaths. But if he remains at the Eyrie, and continues to be obstinate, Aerys will send men to root him out. They will set fire to the Mountains of the Moon, and put Arryn smallfolk to the sword, and encourage the mountain clans to rape and pillage." He tapped his fingers on the map, drawing a line between the Bloody Gate and the hills skirting the Trident. "He will march, if only to spare his own lands."

Benjen walked to the solar's window, frowning as he pushed back the curtains. The sky was dark, thick with purplish clouds that had gathered a fortnight past only to hold. If they broke now it would snow fiercely; the Umbers and Karstarks would be a full turn on the road, perhaps longer.

"Send the ravens," he said, turning back toward Maester Walys. "If Ned decides to march with Robert and Lord Arryn, the men will be ready. If he decides against it, we will at least be protected."

"As you command, my lord," Maester Walys said, nodding slowly. "I believe you've chosen the wisest course."

"Do you think it will come to war?" Benjen asked.

The maester was quiet for a moment, then said, "Most certainly. At least for House Stark. It was a Stark who rode into King's Landing and threatened Rhaegar's life." He paused again, his chain clanking softly as he straightened his robe. "Brandon acted rashly, and Aerys has long seen treachery in every whisper and shadow. I believe he has not yet demanded your head because no one has reminded him Rickard Stark had a third son."

 

+

 

Benjen frowned at the ledgers, rubbing his eyes as the numbers began to swim together. There was much to consider -- taxes, wages, new weapons, the sept Ned was building for his southron wife. He wasn't at his best with sums, but Ned had asked it of him, and there wasn't anyone else Ned would trust with the books. A bout of lung fever had put Vanyon Poole in bed and Maester Walys in the grave; Poole would be down for at least another sennight, and Benjen's ravens to the Citadel had not yet been answered.

He glanced up when he heard a knock at the door, setting his quill and ink aside. It was Ned, dressed in a new doublet of black and grey; his hair was untied, and he still looked as tired and thin as he had in the first days after the war.

"Do you have a moment?"

"You would be doing me a favor," Benjen said, closing the ledgers. "These numbers make for poor company." 

Ned smiled, but it was a grim sight. He had become a grim man, and he wore the weight of Brandon's birthright around his neck like a millstone. "I need to know how the stores fare. Can we spare enough for a small feast?"

"Very small." The stores were beyond thin, between what the garrison had used and what the men had taken south as marching rations. Before the fever struck, Poole had been working on a list of things he wanted smoked or salted or pickled in wine; Benjen hadn't yet seen to half of it. "Who is coming this far north?"

"Catelyn. The rains have finally let up enough for her to travel. She is on her way from Riverrun, with fifty of Lord Tully's household guard as an escort."

"We will manage." _If Lord Tully doesn't send fat men and boys still growing._ "What about Jon?"

Ned's face darkened immediately. He had returned from Robert's war with a bastard son and Lyanna's bones, and he refused to speak about either. "Don't ask me about him."

"Peace," Benjen said, holding up his hands. "This isn't about his mother." He was curious about her -- it would've taken a rare woman to make Ned forget himself, even for an hour -- but he knew he'd sooner get blood from a stone. "With Catelyn coming, I thought you would want to send him away. White Harbor would be agreeable, and old Lord Wyman has a granddaughter Jon's age. Bear Island might -- "

"No."

"Ned, I -- "

"Jon Snow is my blood," Ned said quietly. "I will not have him raised by another man."

 

+

 

It was a quiet feast, if it could be called a feast at all, just simple food and enough men to fill the longest table in the Great Hall. Ned sat at the high end, with Catelyn on his left and Jeor Mormont on his right, a soft line to his usually stern mouth. The Great Hall smelled of woodsmoke and fresh rushes, and sprays of wildflowers filled the spaces between the platters of food. The weather had been warm and clear for nearly a fortnight, the first sign that spring was coming to an end.

Catelyn laughed at something Mormont said, her hands folded over the swollen curve of her belly. Benjen knew little about breeding women, save that they were often tired and queasy and uncomfortable, but if Catelyn suffered from any of these ills she did so with silence and smiles. She was a good woman, and as strong as any born in the North. The serving girls swore she carried a daughter, though he didn't understand how they could tell just by looking at the set and shape of her body.

Benjen spooned more beef and onions onto his plate and covered it all with a thick measure of gravy. He'd put himself toward the middle of the table, away from the handful of men vying to be Ned's next master-of-horse, but there was little to do this far down but eat and drink. The men beside him were so new to Ned's household guard that Benjen scarcely knew their names, and across from him was Yoren, who looked and smelled as sour as ever and was eating like a man who'd been long on the road.

He poured more ale into his cup, then glanced toward the high end, where Catelyn was coaxing Robb to eat his meat. He poked at it while she was watching, but forgot it as soon as she turned away, preferring to lean across the table and pull faces at his bastard brother. Robb strongly favored his mother's Tully blood, with blue eyes and auburn hair and the smooth, freckle-prone skin of people from the Riverlands, but Jon was a Stark through and through. He had grey eyes and a long Stark face and Lyanna's nose and mouth.

The resemblance troubled Benjen, but he kept his suspicions to himself. Ned clearly meant to take Lyanna's secrets to the grave, and secrets never remained such once they were voiced out loud.

"Are you going north or south?" he asked Yoren, to put his mind on other things.

"North," Yoren replied, wiping gravy from his beard with his faded sleeve. "I'd like a few more than I've got, but the weather's too fine. Men don't want to think about snow when the sun's shining above their heads." He cocked his head to the side and gave Benjen a narrow look. "You got anything for me?"

"No," Benjen said. Winterfell's dungeon was empty, save for one lad who'd been caught poaching. It was his first offense, and he was three-and-ten if he was anything at all; Benjen suspected Ned would let him go after he'd sat in the dark with his thoughts for a sennight. "How many did you find?"

"Just them," Yoren said, waving his fork at three boys at the low end of the table. The first two were about ten or twelve and looked alike enough to be related; the other one was a couple years older and scowling at his plate. "I found the young ones in Lannisport. They're brothers maybe, or cousins -- they don't seem to know anymore than I do. They lost their family in the war. Old Qorgyle will tell me the Wall wasn't meant as an orphanage, but he'll find swords and cloaks for them just the same."

"And the other one?"

"Apprentice boy. His master caught him with silver in his pockets, told him he could take the black or lose a hand."

"The lad made the right choice," Jeor Mormont said, taking the empty chair beside Yoren. "He will realize it, once he finally grows some hair on his chin and still has two hands to trim it with." He nodded and Benjen and popped a slice of yellow cheese into his mouth, turning to Yoren as he chewed and swallowed. "Lord Stark wants to know how early we leave."

Yoren huffed into his ale. "First light, if I can get those whelps out of bed."

"Are you visiting the Watch, Lord Mormont?" Benjen asked.

"I'm joining the Watch," Mormont said stoutly. "I meant to once I turned fifty, but Maege gave me another niece to play with, and then King Robert had his war." He leaned back from the table, his chair creaking and his greying beard bristling against his chest. "It is past time I let Jorah live. He's thirty now, a man grown with a wife, and Bear Island isn't big enough for two kings in the same keep."

"You're a good man," Yoren said, breaking a heel of bread into chunks. He was hunched over his plate, his body turned in a way that sharpened the twisted line of his shoulder. "The Watch needs more good men."

 _There are worse ways for a third son to live and die than in service to the realm_.

"I'll come with you," Benjen said quickly, before he could change his mind. "I'll join the Watch as well."

"Another good man." Yoren's smile was a gruesome sight, his crooked teeth stained blood-red from years of chewing sourleaf. "Might be this trip wasn't a waste after all."

 

+

 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ned asked, sounding tired and confused at once.

Benjen wasn't sure -- not truly -- but he could not waver now. "Yes."

"You do not _need_ to do this." Ned sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I could find I place for you here."

"There isn't one. You already have a castellan, and a steward, and a master-at-arms, and a captain for your guard." Winterfell still lacked a master-of-horse, but what Benjen knew about horses aside from riding one without falling off it could fit inside a thimble. "They are good men -- all of them. It would not be fair to displace one just because I'm your brother."

Ned fell silent; he poured himself a cup of wine and drained it in three long swallows. Benjen glanced out the window, gauging the height of the sun; he'd convinced Yoren to wait until noon so he had time to say his farewells.

"I could write Robert," Ned offered quietly. "His Kingsguard is still short a full seven."

"I'm not a knight." _And I don't wish to be one. Not for Robert, and not in the south._ His father and Brandon had gone south only to die; Lyanna had died there as well. "You won't change my mind about this."

Ned studied Benjen for a long moment, then sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. "The Night's Watch is honorable service. Starks have manned the Wall since it was first raised."

"I'll visit as often as old Qorgyle lets me."

"Take Yoren to the armory before you go, and let him have his pick. Take some good horses as well," Ned said, forcing a smile. "I won't have my brother arriving at the Wall empty-handed."

 

+

 

He said his last farewells in the crypts: first his father, then Brandon, then Lyanna.

Their statues were as silent as his gods.

 

+

 

Morning dawned thin and sharp and cold, the sun unwilling to push through the heavy blanket of clouds, and Benjen shivered as he washed and dressed and broke his fast, and again as Lord Commander Qorgyle addressed the recruits bound to take their vows. Qorgyle was a thin man with a booming voice and a Dornish accent that thickened the faster he spoke, and Benjen was the oldest of the ten potential sworn brothers, only one of three who'd ever held a sword before coming to Castle Black. A gust of wind whistled through the yard, and the men stamped their feet and hid their hands under their arms. There was always wind at the Wall -- wind and ice and snow.

"You will live your lives in service to the realm," Qorgyle barked, snowflakes melting in the fur at his collar. "You will have no family, save those who stand around you now."

Qhorin caught Benjen by the shoulder as the crowd started to disperse, his maimed hand an uneven weight at the curve of Benjen's neck. "Benjen Stark. I'd wondered if that seed I planted would ever take root."

"It did."

"It's time you said the words. Let's find you a horse."

"A horse?" Benjen asked, glancing at the other recruits.

"These are southron lads, all of them. They'll take their vows at the sept. There's a weirwood grove just beyond the Wall, for them who keep the old ways."

They rode in silence, Benjen leading his horse a few paces behind Qhorin's. It was colder here than it had been in the yard -- cold in a way Benjen wasn't sure he'd ever make peace with -- but the haunted forest was quiet and still, and the air was crisp and clean. He thought he preferred it to the thick heat he remembered from Harrenhal, the only time in his life he'd traveled south of the Neck.

The grove was made by nine weirwoods standing in a circle, the largest as wide as four grown men and tall enough that the upper branches disappeared into the fog. Each tree had its own face, worn by wind and bloodied by sap -- some sneering and some scowling, but none smiling. Benjen knelt before the one that most resembled the heart tree at Winterfell, and prayed he was making the right decision.

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," he said quietly, the weirwood leaves under his knees crunching in the snow. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins."


End file.
